We all have a lot of journey left,
Even if it’s only steps.
We all reach the same crossroads
Over again, eventually.
(You think you’ve chosen for good, but you’ll reach it again. So will I.)
And maybe the path you chose last time:
The bed you lay in,
The song you sang,
Isn’t the one you choose now.
You weren’t wrong before
And you’re not wrong now—
Just mapping a fully realized life.
And it could be that you leave the road
Choose a middle way, or one that skirts borders.
That’s okay, too.
Feet don’t need pavement, technically.
You don’t need a signpost to know where you’re going.
You don’t even need to know where you’re going.
(No one else needs to know where you’re going either. That’s between you and the crossroads.)
Maybe the solution isn’t to build more roads for every choice you can choose,
Maybe the solution isn’t to pave more routes to travel
(Language will always defy precision, as will all other living things.)
Maybe the solution is to wander the paths of little streams and tree roots,
Until the crossroads, when we reach them again,
Are as overgrown and wild as our changeable hearts.